


sweet nothings are screamed not spoken

by TheDandiestLion



Series: I'll fight you both for the rest of my life long days [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Geralt's not here yet but they talk about him, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Light Dom/sub, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, Torture, Yennefer is not doing the torturing, dom Yennefer, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25508506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDandiestLion/pseuds/TheDandiestLion
Summary: Jaskier wasn’t terribly surprised to wake up in a cell after a night of drinking with Yennefer. What did surprise him was that she was still there.Set afterRare Species, a little Jaskier/Yennefer and discussion of Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: I'll fight you both for the rest of my life long days [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847908
Comments: 6
Kudos: 146





	sweet nothings are screamed not spoken

**Author's Note:**

> It wouldn't hurt to read Part 1 of the series first, since it's short, but I guess you can read this without it. The main takeaway is that Jaskier's mother was an elf.
> 
> All titles taken from The Amazing Devil's song "Two Minutes."

He hadn’t meant to run into the witch. Had been trying to steer clear of anything even slightly witcher-related ever since the mountain, in fact, but it seemed Lady Fate had it out for him. Probably came of spending too much time hanging around certain Destiny-defying witchers.

He’d traveled west after the clusterfuck on the mountain, towards the coast, planning to meander along the main road, vaguely south towards Oxenfurt. Burying himself in the University’s intrigue and political games, not to mention its torrid romances and theatrics, sounded like the perfect distraction from the fact that he’d wasted the last two decades of his life.

Well, wasted was a little harsh, he supposed. He did get some great songs out of it. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty of decades left, thanks to his mother’s heritage.

He had been performing in a tavern in one of the bigger cities, weeks out from the mountain, to a receptive audience (one of the perks of being in an urban area was people with finer tastes, one of the many reasons he preferred to stick to cities when he could. There was also the small fact that Geralt avoided cities like the plague whenever he could), when she walked in the door. It seemed like every head in the place swung towards her, so he couldn’t have missed her even if he couldn’t sense the Chaos roiling around her. He was unfortunately in the middle of a song, so he couldn’t leave, and she locked eyes with him, before grinning like a cat with a canary. Any hopes he had of slinking away were dashed when she sat down at a table without breaking eye contact with him. 

With a churning stomach, he finished his set, smiling and accepting compliments and coin without paying much attention. He made his way over to Yennefer and dropped into the bench across from her, keeping a fake smile on his face. “Fancy meeting you here, Yennefer.”

“Jaskier,” she returned with a sickly-sweet tone. “Always a pleasure.” 

Jaskier hesitated, then said, “He’s not here, you know.”

She snorted. “Obviously. I wouldn’t be here if he were.” She waved, and the barmaid brought over two plates and mugs, setting one in front of each of them.

Jaskier looked from the food in front of him to Yennefer nervously. “Am I about to die? Are you about to kill me? Is this a last rite?”

She actually looked amused. “Consider it thanks for my song, bard.”

“Ah.” He looked down and, given a lack of anything else to do, picked up the mug of something he fervently hoped was alcohol. “So you heard that one.”

“You showed your hand a bit there, I admit,” she said. “The pining was a bit nauseating. But...” She broke their staring contest to take a swig from her mug. “You make me sound like a force of nature. ‘Storm brewing on the horizon, of heartache and longing and lust’… I unironically love it. Being perceived as a bitch with overwhelming elemental power is honestly my highest aspiration.”

Caught off-guard, Jaskier snorted the rather good ale out of his nose, which in turn made Yennefer actually laugh. “Cheers, then,” he said, raising his mug as he wiped his face, and she clinked hers to his. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad.

This was so bad. So very very bad.

All Jaskier could feel was a pounding in his head, like dwarven miners trying to escape his skull. He couldn’t remember a hangover like this since he was studying at Oxenfurt. His half-elven heritage had let him basically prolong the metabolism of a twenty year old man into his forties. Was the jig up? Was he finally starting to grow up?

He tried to remember the night before. Yennefer was there. There’d been ale. And perhaps an ill-advised drinking competition. Then she’d suggested they go outside for something, which seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, and then… He didn’t remember anything after that.

He cautiously cracked one eye open, not terribly surprised to see himself in some kind of stone cell. He was surprised, however, to see Yennefer in the cell as well, scowling with a hand pressed to her forehead.

He tried to sit up, but that only doubled the pounding in his head, so he slumped back to the floor with a whimper. “It seems that mistakes were made,” he said, his voice muffled against the stone floor.

“So it seems, though I doubt they’re the ones you’re thinking of, bard,” Yennefer answered. “How’s your head?”

“On the positive side, death would now be a kindness,” he said. The dusty stone floor was hard, but blessedly cool against his face.

“Well lucky day for you then, that may well be in the cards,” she sniped back, and oh, was that a touch of a Vengerberg accent? She must be especially pissed.

Then her words sank in, and he fought through the waves of pain to prop himself up against the wall. Not much better than the floor, but at least now he could see the door. “What the hell did we get up to last night?”

“Afraid you ‘buttered my biscuit,’ bard?” she asked, eyebrow raised. “Or did you leave your cat on the stove again?”

“Not enough ale in the world to make me drunk enough for that, I’m afraid,” he said, ignoring the last part of her statement. He saw her offended expression and realized what that had sounded like. “It’s not you,” he said, waving a hand. “You’re heart-stoppingly beautiful and all that, storm of lust, et cetera, et cetera, and I am definitely partial to the fairer sex’s charms. But your aura’s all… goopy.” Ah yes, beautiful imagery, the peak of his talent. He made a vague hand gesture. “Getting involved with people with that much Chaos tends to backfire rather spectacularly.”

She conceded the point with a hum. “You’re telling me you see auras now, bard? Did you hit your head?”

“It’s—look, I’m not actually sure if I hit my head or not, since you won’t tell me what happened. I’ve always been able to—not really see auras, but sense them, I guess?” He squinted at her. “Though yours is kind of… not there. At the moment. Is that why you haven’t, you know,” He wiggled his fingers, then mimed an explosion, making an attempt at a magical-blowing-shit-up sound effect.

She grunted in agreement. Goddess, they’d both spent too much time around Geralt. “Either whatever they dosed us with or something about the cell is warding my access to Chaos. We’ll have to wait for an opening.”

Oh, they had been _drugged_. That made Jaskier feel better about his alcohol tolerance. Drug hangovers were something else entirely. It was a bit concerning that the witch couldn’t just blow their captors to kingdom come (at the moment), but Yennefer was a very scary person in any given situation, and he was just happy he was not the one who had given her a headache (this time).

He leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes, groaning softly. “Fuck, my head is killing me.” He was quiet for a moment before softly asking his next question. “Did they tell you what they wanted? Is it something regarding our mutual bastard?”

Geralt’s new title garnered him a breathy laugh from Yennefer. “They didn’t say, but it seems we’ll get our answer soon enough.”

As if on cue, Jaskier heard footsteps and jangling keys approaching down the corridor outside their cell. Well, fuck.

There was a brief clanking of keys in the lock, and then the cell door swung ponderously open. Two figures stood in the doorway, and Jaskier squinted past his headache to try to see them clearly.

The one on the right, holding the keys in his hand, was a scowling elf. If the ears hadn’t given him away, the feeling of his aura—just slightly different than a human’s—would have. The figure on the left was a man, a mage, judging from the slimy aura of Chaos emanating off of him. But where Yennefer was usually surrounded by a thick aura of Chaos roiling like stormclouds with flashes of violet lightning, the Chaos around the man seemed to just seep out of him, clinging to him like bog slime. Gross.

Yennefer seemed to echo his sentiments, making a disgusted sound in her throat. “You’re one of that whoreson Stregobor’s whelps, aren’t you?” she demanded. “The one that he kicked out before you even finished training. Istredd mentioned you.”

“Well, well,” the man sneered. “I didn’t expect to pick up an Aretuza bitch, but here you are.”

“What the fuck are you even doing?” Yennefer demanded, sounding incredulous. “You know the Brotherhood won’t sit still for this.”

“This isn’t actually about you,” the man snapped. “As I said, you were a surprise. We were after the bard.”

“What, really?” Jaskier asked, his voice going unfortunately shrill. He’d been perfectly content to sit on the sidelines, like he always did with Geralt, and wasn’t sure how he felt about being directly involved. On the one hand, this almost certainly meant danger to his person; on the other, someone chose him over Yennefer? That actually felt rather nice.

“Well, well,” he muttered, leaning his head back against the wall. “At least someone has good taste.”

“Half-blood scum,” the elf snarled, and oh, perhaps Jaskier should take back his words.

“I’m only a quarter elf,” Yennefer spat, but then followed the elf’s eyes to Jaskier. “Oh,” she said softly, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, fine, you didn’t think I looked this good thanks to my skincare regimen, did you?” he asked. He looked back to the mage. “What does my blood have to do with anything?”

The mage smirked. “Your blood is actually rather the point. I’m in the midst of important research, important enough that a breakthrough will guarantee the Brotherhood will welcome me back with open arms. Elves have a different relationship to Chaos than humans, which is unfortunately rather incompatible. But half-elves are an entirely different story. With my companion’s help,” he inclined his head towards the elf, “I’m collecting the ingredients for my research.”

The elf stepped forward and grabbed Jaskier’s arm, hauling him to his feet. The movement redoubled the pain in his head, and he couldn’t stop himself from stumbling. “Ah, fuck,” he hissed. As the elf dragged him toward the door, Jaskier blew a kiss at Yennefer over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later, darling, don’t wait up.” Though the sorceress’s expression was an impressive resting bitch face, he had years of experience learning to read Geralt’s, and he was pretty sure he saw some concern lurking under there. Somewhere. Then again, after the mountain, he was kind of doubting whether he’d ever read Geralt right in the first place.

About half of the pain in Jaskier’s head cleared as soon as they pulled him out of the cell, though that didn’t stop him from continuing to stumble, just to be an ass. It seemed Yennefer was right about the cell, but also about whatever they’d been knocked out with. Hopefully that meant that they’d have better odds as soon as this whatever-it-was was out of their systems.

His new friends dragged him into a creepy laboratory that was like a mad scientist’s wet dream, all bubbling flasks and open flames, plus a fun little torture chair, a solid wooden chair with entirely too many buckled straps attached to it. Jaskier did not like that chair, no he did not. So of course that was where he was shoved, the elf taking a bit too much relish in tightening the straps until they were digging into his skin.

“You know, I’ve met Filavandrel,” Jaskier said, conversationally. Because the day he shut up was the day he died ( _which might actually be today_ , he thought a little hysterically). “He said the whole sensing half-elves was part of being a king, a leader, a way to find his people. Are you some kind of-” He was cut off as the elf grabbed his jaw, gripping it tightly enough to bruise.

He leaned in to hiss into Jaskier’s ear. “Half-blood filth like you are not part of us, and never will be. You’re just the result of men raping and enslaving my people, and I’ll happily help that mage bleed every one of you I can find dry.” He released his hold on Jaskier’s head and turned away, and the bard swallowed roughly.

“Well, can’t really argue with that,” he muttered. He knew he reaped the privilege of passing as a human, that he had never suffered like his mother’s people—like his mother herself—had. Despite Filavandrel’s kindness, he knew he had no place among the elves. This elf wasn’t wrong, though blaming Jaskier for whatever may have happened between his parents seemed a bit unfair, since he wasn’t even born yet. He didn't think his father had gone that far, but his mother had certainly not been happy. 

Still, he’d been frolicking across the Continent, following at Geralt’s heels and singing his pretty little songs, enjoying his long life while his mother’s people were victims of war and poverty and genocide. Maybe Destiny thought it was time to balance the scales a bit.

He wasn’t exactly surprised when the elf returned with a gag, though he couldn’t help recoiling, at least as much as he could while strapped into the nightmare chair. His voice was his weapon, and he’d managed to sweet talk his way out of any number of predicaments, but losing his voice was like Geralt losing his swords. Except Geralt wasn’t totally useless without his swords. “There’s no need for that, good sir, I assure you, I can be as quiet as a mouse-” His words were cut off by the musty taste of leather as the gag was shoved into his mouth, then roughly buckled behind his head. He winced as it yanked out a few strands of his hair.

“I sincerely doubt that,” the elf muttered, then crossed the room to join the mage, outside of Jaskier’s field of vision. 

This was shaping up to be a very bad day, and it did not get any better when the mage came back into his view, carrying two large basins and a very sharp looking knife. Jaskier couldn’t help drawing in on himself and keening weakly behind the gag, but the mage only sneered at him before situating the basins beneath the arms of the chair, then drawing the knife across his bound wrists.

The knife was sharp enough that he barely felt the pain at first, only a sting, but, oh, that was quite a bit of blood, running down his wrists and into the basins, more than he was used to seeing, even after so many years traveling with Geralt. He tilted his head back against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, trying to keep himself from trembling. Surely they wouldn’t bleed him dry, right? Not right now? Keeping him alive would mean more blood for them in the long run, like keeping a goat for her milk. Lovely imagery, he was _so_ not a fan of comparing himself to livestock, but he was even less a fan of being dead livestock. While being strapped down and sliced open every day for the foreseeable future was not a very promising vision, the longer he was alive the more opportunities he had for escape.

He felt himself growing light-headed from the blood loss, and let himself drift. He could probably make a song out of this, provided there was some sort of heroic rescue. Torture chairs and bloodletting were appropriately gorey for a fan favorite, especially if it happened to him—people loved “Toss a Coin,” thank you very much Geralt. Hmm, and everyone loved to hate mages, the creepy fucks. It sounded like Yennefer could give him the dirt on some of them, too. He was pretty sure he’d heard of Stregobor in relation to something nasty, and she sounded like she’d be all too happy to provide the details.

Huh. Maybe she could be his new… Not muse, he didn’t think he could go through that again after Geralt, but maybe an occasional inspiration? She appreciated his work, at least. If she got him out of this, she could definitely be the hero of the new song. He nodded his head to himself decisively, which was a mistake, because he promptly blacked out.

He didn’t come to until he was being shoved back into the cell, his first awareness the sick sensation of falling. He squeezed his eyes shut, resigned to being suddenly reacquainted with the stone floor via his face, and was surprised when he was caught by strong arms, instead.

“Oi, you fucks!” Yennefer yelled at their retreating captors. “You want him alive, don’t you? Maybe don’t just throw him around while he’s unconscious!”

Goddess, he couldn’t even think past the pounding in his head now. He whimpered a bit as Yennefer slowly lowered them both to the floor, his head resting in her lap, and when his voice came out muffled he realized that they hadn’t taken the gag off of him. 

“Hush, now,” Yennefer cooed at him, her fingers gentle but quick as she unbuckled the gag from behind his head, then stroked through his hair as she pulled it from his mouth.

“Goddess, you’re being nice, now I really feel like I’m about to die,” he said, his voice coming out hoarse. He cracked an eye open and looked up at her face, but she had picked up one of his wrists and was staring at the dirty bandage wrapped around it with a complicated expression on her face. He turned his head into her skirt and took a deep, shaky breath, blocking the world out for just a moment. Her hand was still in his hair, and it was nice, though if he thought about it too long he was afraid he would start crying and not be able to stop.

“The cell’s definitely warded,” he said. “But they dosed us with something, too. I lost about half the headache when they took me out of the cell, so hopefully it will get better when the drug runs its course.”

“That sounds about right,” she said, and it was strange, her voice without the cutting tone he was used to.

“So he’s trying to get some kind of magical power-boost, right?” Jaskier asked. “That’s why he’s playing mad scientist with my blood?”

“Probably,” Yennefer agreed. “Part of my strength as a sorceress comes from my elven blood, and there are flowers that increase magical strength that grow where elven blood is spilled. I’d imagine he’s trying to do something with that, the fuckwit.” 

Something must have occurred to her, because she suddenly stiffened, her hand frozen in Jaskier’s hair. “Bard, how old are you?” she asked, her voice deceptively calm.

“Uhm, not that much older than I look, I guess.” He squinted. Maths was hard. “Forty… two? I think? Somewhere around there.” She relaxed again, blowing out a breath, and he craned his neck to look up at her suspiciously. “Why?”

“Well, my father was half-elven, though I never met him, and your sluttiness is rather renowned across the Continent. I just wanted to be sure.”

It took a minute for her meaning to sink in—he blamed the blood loss—but then he swore violently. “Oh, goddess! That would be—I mean, you’re perfectly lovely, but—just—ugh.”

She hummed her agreement and resumed stroking through his hair. He wasn’t sure if she knew she was doing it, and he didn’t want to risk calling her attention to it. “I was born with a twisted spine, you know,” she said. “Half-elven blood doesn’t pass on well.”

“So I’ve heard,” Jaskier replied, trying not to think of the horror stories he’d heard. A lot of them were just thinly-veiled racism, he knew—easy to blame the elves if a babe turned out unhealthy—but still. “I’ve always been careful, had all the tricks trained into me by the best matrons of Oxenfurt. Even human bards can’t go leaving bastards across the Continent. Though I’m probably sterile, anyway—most half-elves are.”

He felt a nudge of something, and rolled over so that he was looking up at her. Sure enough, her aura was starting to flare a bit around her. “Your aura’s coming back a bit,” he told her. “Can you feel your Chaos yet?”

“Getting there,” she answered. She smirked down at him. “My goopy aura, was it?”

“Hmm, no, I did it better earlier. Give me a moment.” He threw his arm across his face and forced his exhausted brain into composer mode. “Your aura encompasses you like roiling stormclouds, violet flashes of lightning in their hearts, or perhaps like billowing columns of smoke, with embers of amethyst caught in the updraft.” He peeked up at her from beneath his arm. “Is that better? A bit more terrifyingly elemental? I’m running short on synonyms for purple.”

Her smile down at him seemed fond. “There’s that silver tongue. Consider me flattered.”

He winked at her. “That’s not the only reason they call it silver.” He hummed in appreciation of her praise, wiggling a bit to get comfortable resting against her lap. He left his arm over his face as he said, as casually as he could manage, “You know, if your going full vampire on me—our mutual bastard has assured me that vampires are totally real things, though not at all as sexy as the ballads make them out to be—and drinking my blood or whatever would give you the boost to get us out of here, that’d be fine by me.”

She brushed her fingers through his hair again. “I’m not sure how much blood you have left in you, bard.” He hummed his acknowledgement. He knew it would be dangerous. He was okay with that. “But there might be another option,” she said, and he heard something sly in her voice. 

He peeked up at her again, and she was tapping her finger against her lips. “Do you remember how we met, with the Djinn? You were a bit out of it at the time.”

“Well, this admittedly may have been an excellent dream, but I seem to remember an impressively well-choreographed orgy,” he answered.

She seemed pleased by his answer. “Thank you! Some people don’t appreciate how much work goes into a good orgy.” She gently scratched his scalp. “I have made a personal study, something of a specialization, of the interplay between Chaos and sex, and how the two can be used to complement one another. There’s the intimacy and energy, of course, but also the potential for life, which is pretty powerful in itself. Blood’s not the only fluid you have, after all, though I suppose we should be grateful for this moronic mage’s lack of imagination.”

He thought of the torture chair and shuddered. “Ugh. Getting a hate jack-off from one of our new friends would be incredibly awful, and probably physically impossible.” She brushed her thumb across his bottom lip, and he swallowed hard. “But I could possibly be convinced under these particular circumstances.”

“Hmm, I thought you could,” she said, her voice dry. “Doesn’t seem like it would take much.”

He squirmed, feeling his pants growing tight. He wouldn’t have thought he had enough blood left for that, but then he’d never been a quitter. “Ah yes, my fame as a legendary slut goes before me.” He went to sit up, but pain crashed into his skull and he sagged back with a whimper. Yennefer pulled him against her, back to front, his head resting against her shoulder and her legs braced to either side of his hips. He turned his head into her neck and felt himself blush. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to contribute a great deal.” 

“You can owe me,” she replied, and pressed her palm to his mouth. “Lick.”

He couldn’t bite back a moan as he obeyed, and she scratched her nails against his scalp again before reaching down and unlacing his breeches one-handed. When she deemed her hand suitably wet, she reached down and pulled him out, then started stroking him at a brisk, business-like pace. It was too much, it hurt and felt too good all at the same time, and he couldn’t help arching his back and mewling. He felt himself blush hotter, and raised a hand to cover his mouth, but she batted it down. “If you can’t return the favor, the least you can do is put on a show,” she said, and he could feel her gaze hot on his skin like a touch. He shivered. 

“All that study,” she whispered into his ear, her voice like dark velvet, “you get to where you can tell what someone likes before you even touch them.” She twisted her wrist cruelly, and he couldn’t hold back a cry. “You’re a people-pleaser, bard, I could tell that from a mile away. You’d do anything if someone told you how good you were for them, wouldn’t you? A good little slut?” He whimpered, suddenly unsure how he’d gone from literal torture to the most turned-on he’d been in his life in such a short span of time. _Damn_ Yennefer.

“And just a little bit of pain, to make the pleasure sweeter,” she breathed into his ear. She wrapped her hand around his throat, pressing just hard enough to make his breath whistle as she continued to jack him quickly with her other hand. He didn’t have the strength to do anything but sob and scrabble weakly at her hand at his throat, and when she bit down hard on the shell of his ear, he came with a silent scream.

“What the fuck,” he breathed as he came down, unable to still his trembling.

Yennefer pressed a kiss to his temple. “Mm, what a sweet boy for me.” She wrapped one arm tightly around him as he buried his face back in her neck. “I don’t normally swallow, but I’ll make an exception this once.” He heard her licking his spend from her hand, and felt like he was about to combust.

Then there was a flare of Chaos, a thundering wind, and they fell through the stone floor onto a clean, soft bed in a dimly lit room.

Jaskier didn’t wake up until the late morning sun was streaming across the room. He stretched lazily, vaguely surprised to see himself wearing an unfamiliar night shift. He muzzily remembered the night before, the part that made his face flush dully, but also after their escape, Yennefer soothing him with soft words, cleaning him up and encouraging him to drink juice and eat some food. His wrists were wrapped in clean white bandages, and though they throbbed dully, they no longer burned.

Just as he was contemplating whether it was worth the potential return of his headache to try to sit up, Yennefer pushed open the door. Jaskier yanked the blankets up over his face, leaving only his eyes peering out at the sorceress; he knew it must make him look like a child, but he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to act around Yennefer now, and something inside him still felt like it was trembling, though he wasn’t sure what part of yesterday’s experience had caused it.

He needn’t have worried; Yennefer had everything under control, as usual. It seemed like the only thing she couldn't reliably control was herself, but maybe that was just Geralt's special talent for bringing out the worst in the people around him. 

She set the tray she was carrying down on the bedside table, then sat on the bed next to Jaskier, leaning back against the headboard. She raised her arm, and Jaskier found himself burrowing against her side before he could think about it. She rested her arm around his shoulders and scratched her nails against his scalp. He hummed and melted into her.

“Those two buffoons have been taken care of,” she said eventually. “I called Aretuza last night and gave a report, then portalled back to make sure his research and ‘ingredients’ were destroyed.” Jaskier gave a questioning hum, and her grip around him tightened briefly. “I get a little possessive over what I consider mine,” she said, and he understood that she’d done it to protect him, because somehow they’d gone from spitting at each other to… this. Whatever this was.

“Geralt?” he whispered, not sure what he was asking, but knowing they had to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Neither of them had even said his name since they’d met at the tavern, but he was somehow still here between them.

Yennefer groaned. “A moron who tied our destinies together with that thrice-damned Djinn.” She rubbed her forehead with the hand not buried in Jaskier’s hair. “Thanks to that, our paths are sure to cross sooner or later.” She gently shook Jaskier. “What about you, bard? Why aren’t you nipping at his heels?”

He slid down, pulling the blankets over his shoulder and resting his head in her lap. “I haven’t seen him since the dragon hunt,” he mumbled. “After you left, he took everything out on me, said Destiny would be doing him a favor if it took me off his hands.” The hand in his hair tightened briefly, then relaxed and continued stroking him. “I’ve been keeping out of his way since.”

He felt Yennefer lean to the side, and then there was a piece of fruit nudging at his lips. “Eat, sweet thing. You lost a lot of blood.” He opened his mouth and took it, pretending his eyes weren’t burning with repressed tears. His emotions were all over the place after the day before, and this unforeseen kindness might just break him. They continued like that in silence for a few moments, one of Yennefer’s hands coaxing him to eat, the other brushing through his hair. 

“Did you two ever act on all that sexual tension between you?” she asked. He shook his head and she sighed. “We’re not good together, he and I,” she admitted. “Not just the two of us. He wants to be soft, and I can’t be that for him. And he won’t go down for me, not like I need.” She turned Jaskier’s face to look up at her, and brushed her thumb over his cheekbone. “Would you like it, sweet? Geralt and I both taking care of you?”

Images and fantasies crashed over him, and he buried his face in the covers, then nodded. He hesitated. “Do you think Geralt—do you think he—” his voice dropped to a whisper, “would want me?”

“I think he’s always wanted you, bard. At least since I’ve known him. He begged quite prettily for me to save you from the Djinn, after all. But he’s stubborn, and won’t let himself have what he wants. He’s afraid of having things because he thinks he’ll break them. That’s why he fell in with me, I think; he knows I’m stronger than him.” They sat in silence for a moment, both lost in thought about their witcher.

“I don’t think he knows,” Jaskier finally said, mumbling into the bedclothes. “About me. He always calls me a human. But I’ve been with him for decades.” He paused. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t see me at all.”

Yennefer hummed thoughtfully. “If he doesn’t, then that’s his loss.” She brushed her hand over his hair, then down to scratch gently at his back. “You look good in my clothes, sweet,” she said idly. “Something to revisit later, I think.” He could feel his ears burning. He hadn’t noticed it was a woman’s shift, but now he realized it must be hers.

She leaned down close to his ear and whispered, “I’m sure Geralt would agree.” He mewled again, embarrassingly, and she pulled him up and into her arms, tucking his head beneath her chin. “You’ll need to stay here a few days to get your strength back,” she said. “Maybe let me coddle you a bit. Then if we’re both ready to forgive Geralt, we can find him and have a talk.”

“That sounds—” Jaskier cleared his throat. “That sounds good. I’d like that.” He hesitated. “You could—” He stopped, let the sentence hang.

“I could what, sweet?” Yennefer asked him. 

“You could call me Julian,” he whispered. “If you want. It’s my name, my real name.”

“Thank you, Julian.” She pressed a kiss into his temple. “Why don’t you get some rest, Julian, and we’ll talk more when you wake up.”

He nodded, and nuzzled against her as he felt himself drift off. _Lilac_ , he thought, somewhat disjointedly. _Lilac and gooseberries_. There was a song in there somewhere, he was sure.

**Author's Note:**

> Up next in the series: more torture! And some Geralt! And finally some of that threesome smut.


End file.
